Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
RYAN
I should not be here.
I came up with as many excuses as I possibly could, but Nash didn’t give a fuck about any of them, and neither did Shawn. That’s why I’m standing in front of the bar door that leads into the clubhouse, carrying two boxes of cupcakes.
As I chew on my bottom lip, my feet are frozen in their spot.
I think about setting the boxes down and running.
I could run. I brought my own car, against Shawn’s wishes.
She wanted me to come with her, but the only way I agreed to show up here at all was if I could bring my own car.
I want to get the fuck out when I want to get the fuck out.
Right now, I’m ready to leave, and I haven’t even stepped one foot through the door. I can hear the music, smell the smoke, and I know when I walk in there, I’ll see the whores doing what they do.
I know everything that happens in there. I used to be immersed in the life. As much as I want to believe that it’s no big deal, that I know what to expect, that’s just the problem. I know what to expect.
Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath, then let it out slowly before I open my eyes, focus on the door, and take a step forward. If Shawn realizes that I’m hesitating my ass off, she doesn’t say anything.
She wouldn’t anyway. Shawn is probably one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. My initial gut judgment of her was right. She’s a good woman, clearly someone who cares about herself and her man. She’s an old lady but sweeter than any I’ve ever known, including myself.
Together, we move toward the door, and the prospect standing guard dips his chin with a smile as he opens it for us. I’m not sure if the prospect guarding the gate sent a message for this one to help us inside, but it would not surprise me if that’s what happened.
Nothing about this place, this club, or these men surprises me anymore.
Stepping into the clubhouse bar, I lift my feet, one then the other. It’s sticky with beer and whatever other kinds of fluids make things sticky. I try not to think about it. Shawn jerks her head toward the side of the room where there is a long banquet table set up.
The music is exactly how I knew it would be, loud rock that fills the room.
It rattles your bones and pounds in your head.
I love it. And I hate that I love it. Trying to ignore all the happenings going on in the room, I turn my back to the bar area and get to work busying myself with cupcakes, cookies, and cake.
Shawn moves gracefully around the table, setting everything up as if she’s done this a million times, which I’m sure by now she has. I can’t imagine a single milestone going by without these men begging for desserts from her.
Not only are they hungry bastards, but Shawn’s desserts are also just that good.
When we’re almost finished, I notice a couple of shadows behind us. Slowly, I turn around to face them, expecting one to be a still angry Grover. But that’s not who it is at all. It’s King, his gaze on Shawn and only Shawn. Beside him is Clink.
“I’m just here for cookies,” he announces.
My lips twitch into a smile, and I move to the side. “Have at it.”
He hums, rushing the table, and I watch in awe as he takes four cookies and three cupcakes. He jerks his chin, two of his four cookies in his mouth, turns around and walks away as if he hadn’t just pillaged the table.
My gaze slides to the side, and I watch as King places his hand on Shawn’s belly before he slants his head to the side and lowers down to kiss her. I don’t watch his mouth make contact. It seems too intimate, so I turn away from them, facing the action in the bar and wishing I hadn’t.
There are a few orgies happening in various places in the room, one of the pool tables being one of them. I stare at that one, mainly because that was exactly where Grover was fucking a clubwhore the last time I came to one of these things.
I can’t look away, and they don’t notice that I’m staring anyway.
They are, without a doubt, equal parts drunk and high.
They probably like being watched, too, if I had to guess.
And I don’t have to guess because these women are all into it.
Not one of them has even a modicum of modesty, and I know that because I walked in on Grover fucking one of them, a nameless, faceless body in the exact same spot.
“You are staring awfully hard at that. I don’t think you’re the type, though, babe,” a voice murmurs from beside me.
Turning my head, I tear my gaze from the foursome doing whatever the fuck they’re doing and look at the man who belongs to the voice.
It’s Gnaw.
“Do you know the type I am?” I ask, arching a brow.
He smirks, his eyes sliding down my body before they come back up to meet my own. He no doubt is judging my outfit with his statement about me not being the type.
Granted, I’m not. But I assuredly am not in my black jeans that are a little baggy, my tennis shoes, my black T-shirt that’s tucked into the front of my high-waisted jeans but hangs loosely in the back. And then there’s my hair, thrown up into a messy bun. I look exactly like the mom I am.
“Yeah, babe. I do. But mainly because I’ve known you since you were seven years old.”
I’d forgotten that Gnaw was in my sister’s year in school, and while we weren’t friends, he and Ellen were.
In reality, Ellen was friends with every boy she ever met, no matter how old she was.
She’s still the same way, although friendship changed around twelve years old for her because that’s when she started having sex.
I always get a little twinge in my chest at the thought of my sister having sex at that age, knowing that she was just a little kid. She should have been playing with Barbies still. She should have been playing in the dirt.
But she wasn’t. Our lives weren’t mud pies and lemonade stands.
It’s just not how we were raised. However, whereas she followed our mother’s path, I chose to be the extreme opposite.
I lost my virginity to Grover, and for seven years, he was the only man I’d ever been with.
I tried with someone else, but it didn’t work, and here I am, back to him.
“Fine. You know me. I wouldn’t ever do that,” I snap.
Gnaw chuckles. “He’s at the bar, alone, if you’re wondering. Probably too drunk to walk, though.”
“Which means he’s too drunk to fight,” I mutter to myself.
“That too,” Gnaw chuckles.
I lift my eyes to him, widening them before I clear my throat. “I don’t understand how you can ride those bikes, listen to this loud-ass music, and still hear me when I practically whisper.”
“It’s your tone,” he says. “I can pick up that female frequency from a mile away.”
“Just in case she’s a willing woman?” I ask.
He grins. “You know it, legs.”
Rolling my eyes, I give him a smile, then, against my better judgment, I wade through the crowd and go in search of Grover at the bar.
He’s exactly where Gnaw said he would be.
Alone, a glass and a bottle in front of him, his forehead resting on his arm as he lies there, no doubt contemplating what the fuck he did wrong in his life.
I can answer that.
It was me.
ATOMIC
My entire body jumps. It jerks, and I lift my head, looking over to see what’s made me do that. Then I see her eyes focused on mine, and my entire fucking body aches. For her. I fucking ache for her. I kind of hate myself for it. How goddamn ridiculous I am, and what a pussy.
“You okay?” she asks, her voice soft and sweet.
I hate that shit, too. She doesn’t look like the villain I want her to be right now. In fact, she is sexy as fuck, even though she’s not wearing anything overtly sexual. It works for her, and I want nothing more than to be inside of her body.
Turning in my chair to face her, I widen my thighs, gripping her hips with my fingers before I tug her between my legs.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t protest the move.
Keeping one of my hands on her hip, I slide the other around to her back and up her spine, stopping when I reach the middle and applying pressure to bring her face closer to mine.
She obliges me, bending down far enough that I can’t kiss her, but I also don’t have to yell at her to talk. It’s not exactly what I want, but close enough for now. Looking into her eyes, I search for that woman who lied, who hid a whole fucking life from me, but I don’t see her.
I just see Ryan.
“Why do you piss me off, and at the same time, I still want to fuck the absolute shit out of you?” I ask.
Her lips curve up into a small smirk. “I feel the exact same way.”
Releasing my grip on her hip, I lift my hand and wrap my fingers around the side of her neck. I slide my thumb along the underside of her eye and continue searching her gaze. “Legs,” I rasp. “Fucking hell.”
She reaches up, gripping my shoulders as she climbs onto my lap, her knees on either side of me, resting against the chair.
Wrapping my arm around her waist, I hold her against me.
Her tits press against my chest, and I can feel them through my shirt.
Fuck, I want her naked and pressed against me right now.
Sliding my hand from the center of her back all the way past her neck, I tangle it in the hair at the nape of her neck as I hold her closer to me.
“I’m still pissed as fuck at you,” I remind her.
I don’t know if I’ll ever not be angry about this, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to fuck her because I’ll always want to fuck her. And maybe that’s what went wrong the first time. I didn’t do that enough.
I was busy fucking anyone and everyone I could get my dick into. I should have focused on her. Then, maybe we wouldn’t be in this position.
I’ll never admit it, though.
Admitting I fucked up like that would be a pussy move.
“Legs,” I rasp.
“I know you are,” she exhales, her hips rolling, silently begging for more.
She leans forward, closer, her mouth touching mine, and then I feel her tongue slip inside of me. In the five years we were together, never, not once, did we ever do anything past kissing in this room.
This is new, and I’m not sure how to take it.
I’m also too drunk to question anything.
Releasing my grasp on her, I slip my hands between us and unbutton her jeans. Slowly, I slide the zipper down. The music is so loud that I shouldn’t be able to hear every single tooth of the zipper as I move it down, but I can, or maybe it’s my imagination.
When her zipper is down, I waste no time.
Shoving my hand between her legs, I cup her pussy.
It’s warm and damp, fucking perfect, the way it always is.
Just for me. Mine for the taking. Nipping her bottom lip, I lean back slightly so I can watch her as I make her come right here in the middle of the bar.
“Grover,” she exhales.
My lips twitch into a smile, my eyes never leaving hers as her nails dig into the leather of my cut at the shoulders.
“Come on my fingers, legs. Show me how much you want me.”
I notice the moment she realizes where she is. There is a noise somewhere in the background, and she turns her head for a split second before she brings her attention back to me. I don’t stop moving my fingers between her legs. Her wetness is starting to coat my palm, and it’s fucking amazing.
“I want you,” she exhales, her breaths coming out in pants. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Leaning forward, I touch my lips to the center of her throat. “Nobody here is judging you, Ryan,” I murmur. “You’re my old lady in this room, and not one person gives a fuck if you want to do your old man.”
One of her hands leaves my shoulder, and I feel her fingers slide through the hair at the back of my head, gripping the strands as her hips continue to roll and buck against my hand. Shifting my head back slightly, I look up into her eyes.
“Am I?” she asks, her voice trembling and unsure.
“Pissed at you, legs. But you’re still mine. No more talking. Come on my fingers now.”